Observe and Report
by tigerlily25
Summary: Tony has permission to be in Mexico, but his unexpected protection detail is lying two feet away on a pile of rotting lettuce, and Vance is going to kill him. Set post-Rule 51.


**A/N:** Written for Round 2 of the NCIS Last Fiction Writer Standing. The challenge was to write a character study in first person perspective, without dialogue - internal thoughts only. Those of you who've been around for awhile might have noticed I never write in first person. There's a reason for that. Nevertheless, the point of the competition is to stretch your boundaries, and I can safely say that trying to wrap my head around the dreaded 'I' definitely did that. :)

* * *

The air hangs heavy with the scent of stale sweat and spices as I weave seamlessly through the bustling street market, an ambling cat in dark-tinted sunglasses and an open-necked shirt. The crowd press and recede, eager voices urging one another to look at this and taste some of that and what I can only assume is the local equivalent of _please, Senor, may I have some more?_

A few feet ahead, the dark-haired man stops at a fruit stand. He surveys the offerings while a woman in a battered cowboy hat that's probably seen plenty of rodeos in its day smiles and chatters. The heat around me is thick and weighted like a blanket; I can't imagine how she can stand the press of the heavy denim on her shoulders. I pretend to examine a brightly tasselled vest and instead watch as he laughs, then selects a perfect green apple and bites into it with relish.

It's fitting, really – Alejandro Rivera bit into the apple long ago at the behest of someone he could not possibly deny. There's always a price to pay in a world full of snakes with forked tongues.

I watch him lick the juice from his lips, and hope the apple lived up to expectations.

* * *

Rule #27: There are two ways to follow someone. First, make sure they never notice you. Second, make sure they _only_ notice you.

I could claim to have noticed Mike Franks before he pushes me into an alley, but my eyes would likely dart unconsciously to the left.

He's looking a little worse for wear, and his right hand is still inconveniently missing a finger. I've heard they don't grow back, so that's not entirely a surprise, but the dressing is clean and professional, not at all fitting the Kimble air he's got going on. A fugitive with ready access to a hiding place… and medical professionals. Who'da thunk it?

In that shirt, with the same determined look, he could be me in ten or twenty or more years, given the right circumstances and sacrifices. And I like my trigger finger just where it is, thanks all the same.

The thought reminds me that there's somewhere I'm supposed to be – somewhere definitely not here. I'm pretty sure Ziva's plotting new and interesting uses for miscellaneous stationery items, and not without merit. My empty seat at her ceremony is just another falling gavel, another damning sentence for the defendant in the court of the broken promises of men.

But this is not the time for regrets.

Franks' eyes are set and steely. His voice is cracked granite crunching under steel-capped boots, heavy with the taint of too many cigarettes.

He couldn't possibly believe that one clipped sentence from him would be enough to make me, his own Probie's Probie, give up the chase. He's got a granddaughter who deserves the chance to know her grandfather as something more than a legend memorialised in granite; a folded, faded flag on the mantle.

Pull the trigger with his thumb? Unlikely. Those kind of sneaky hero tricks only really work in the movies, and no, I don't feel particularly lucky today.

I step out into the unforgiving sunshine.

Vance is going to _kill_ me.

* * *

We proceed in a sort of grotesque fashion parade; one following the other down the one-way runway that marks the debut collection of the (semi) Law Enforcement House of Pain. Rivera. Franks. And bringing up the rear, one Anthony DiNozzo, the long shot to win a race he's been _ordered_ not to run.

_You get orders. You may not like them, but you follow them. That is why they are called orders._

Sometimes you follow them. Sometimes – like, for example, when you see a beefy shaven-headed man ambush an ex-agent from behind and bundle him into an alley, closely followed by two shots that the crowd steadfastly ignore (I'll take a river in Egypt for $200, Alex) – you don't.

Noises of a panicked scuffle and a sudden screech of tyres pulling away ahead tell me that Alejandro has scampered like the slippery weasel he is. Clearly the finest of cartel lineage counts for nothing in high-pressure situations.

He'll keep.

_DiNozzo!_ shouts Gibbs-in-my-head.

Right. On it, Boss.

* * *

One thing about hired muscle; they really can be as stupid as they are in the movies. It only takes one well-placed hit to the base of the skull with my SIG and Goliath goes down like a sack of potatoes. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

Maybe it's my gut, or all the years of covert bullpen-sneaking operations courtesy of one Ziva David, but my finely-honed skills of observation warn me that Goliath didn't come alone. One day I might tell her that sometimes – not always, but sometimes – I used to let her sneak up on me. Everyone needs a little ego-boost sometimes, even crazy ninja chicks.

I wonder for a second whether she decided to wear the white blazer she talked about so proudly, a rare purchase for someone who usually prefers all things functional and nondescript; shades of khaki, black and grey. White is to practical what McGoo is to suave, but one can't start a new life wearing killing clothes.

If my life was a movie, the audience would be on their feet yelling "Look behind you!" It's not, and I don't – the bullet that whips past me to bury itself in crumbling brick just beyond my left ear is enough of a warning.

The Reynosa hiring pool clearly leaves much to be desired.

'Observe and report' probably doesn't translate to 'faster pussycat kill kill' in any language, but I'm getting the idea that 'no permission, no protection' is something of a moot point right now. The permission isn't the problem, and my unexpected protection detail is lying two feet away on a pile of rotting lettuce.

Besides, Vance isn't likely to appreciate the paperwork that the discovery of an NCIS agent operating on foreign soil without authority or jurisdiction will bring.

Mini-Goliath goes down with one shot from my borrowed gun and doesn't move again, and for the first time I'm glad that the general population considers gunfire their personal warning to become simultaneously deaf and blind.

Nothing to see here, move along.

Franks is still doing his best Bernie impression and the clock is tick-tocking, so I move to check his pulse – slow, slightly erratic, but still there – and tear the greasy bandanna from Goliath's meaty neck to wrap around the brand new ventilation hole in Franks' shoulder. It's a woeful attempt at wound dressing, not to mention highly unsanitary, but still preferable to bleeding out in a dirty Mexican alley.

Besides, if I save the Boss's Boss, maybe that's one less person back in DC with an axe to grind.

A quick search turns up a sheathed knife and a scrap of paper scrawled with a name. _Misión San Miguel Arcángel_. I never pegged Franks for a religious man. Looks like we're off to find us some angels.

It's not a good morning for _anyone_, Charlie.

I haul Franks to his feet and fasten his arm around my shoulder, lifting his weight with a grunt like an old bar buddy who's regretting that last call for tequila slammers.

Some people just can't hold their liquor.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed. Feedback welcomed as always.


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